


The Way Things Are

by loveinallthismess



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Light Angst, M/M, Mentions Of Infidelity, Rimming, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 18:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15176249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinallthismess/pseuds/loveinallthismess
Summary: “Do you think we would have met, if not for this?”Timothée and Armie indulge in a shared fantasy.





	The Way Things Are

 

The night is unusually restless.

Unforeseen rainstorms had placed halt on production as the grass outside the villa was reduced to a mud pile. Timothée wouldn’t be much of an actor if he was unable to tell a lie, and with practise gleaned from years of denying wrong-doings against his sister – “I swear, Pauline said her Barbie wanted a hair-cut” – he is able to school his smirk of guilt into wide-eyed casual innocence. The caked dirt on the back of Armie’s shorts in the shape of a handprint, totally accidental. Luca hustles them inside, Guilia from costuming fussing before unceremoniously tugging Timothée’s polo top over his head and walking away with it.

Normally the scolding would bring him right back to middle school, where creative liberty seemed to be a punishable offence. The reins were loosened at LaGuardia, but a fear of failure was difficult to unlearn. Here, with Armie by his side, camaraderie seems a more fitting term. Luca dismisses them with a genial wave of his hand, resigned but mostly unperturbed over the loss of a day of filming.

It was this attitude Timothée found most difficult to adjust to. Crema was peaceful, languid with time like a chewy toffee that seemed to stretch almost forever before the final, inevitable snap. There was a freedom to be found here that was at once foreign and welcoming, but followed with a sense of foreboding, like this city may well swallow him whole, only to be returned years later finding himself the same, but in a world that had now changed, leaving him behind. Or perhaps the opposite. This experience already seemed to be shaping the very cells of him, those that itched under his skin, still with the boyish, boundless energy of New York. Italy was beautiful, but New York was its own special breed of chaotic majesty. As the filming days dwindled, Timothée for the first time in his life almost dreaded the return home, afraid that this time the change would be too much.

The arrival of Armie to Crema had helped sate the very bones of him. Here was a man full of life, big and booming, brimming with a patter of easy confidence Timothée only realised later was partly a façade; a mask worn of both expectations and protection. To be let beneath the surface of someone he had once perceived as larger than life was almost the biggest reward.

At Armie’s insistence they had biked the long trek back to the apartments, reaching the stoop to Armie’s place long after windswept had turned to sodden. Timothée follows Armie upstairs, no longer presumption, just the easy fact that they will be spending the night together as they have for weeks now. Timothée’s own apartment lay barren; a collection of old script pages and clothes too heavy for an Italian summer the only things left behind.

A cool breeze whispers through the square, flapping awnings and rustling trees, cicadas answering the whistled call with their own chirps, returning to sing once the rainfall finally broke around 9 o’clock, clearing with the setting sun. Lace curtains rustle, window slightly ajar from the post-coital cigarette shared resting naked against the windowsill. It was for the best Armie’s apartment had no balcony or Timothée was positive they would have been arrested for indecent exposure.

Now they lay bare, nestled under cotton sheets. The television, old and dialled to rest between stations, fills the space with a wash of white noise and static. A necessity Timothée found he needed in order to sleep, too used to his apartment back in Brooklyn sitting above ceaseless traffic and neon lighting. Armie indulges him, pretends it’s a hardship, but Timothée knows by now that he sleeps like the dead. He still appreciates it.

Timothée has never shared a bed with anyone on a consistent basis before. His last serious girlfriend had been when he was still in high school, living with his parents and feeling like he was going to crawl out of his skin if he didn’t get his life started soon. She left the picture shortly after graduation due to a mutual disinterest in the prospect of keeping the relationship going on any longer. Since, there have been a few one-night-stands, maybe a repeat offender here and there. But sleeping next to someone every night felt big, like this is what adults do. And when Armie’s body moves, Timothée knows his own body will shift unconsciously to accommodate. He knows that Armie’s necessity for sleep is to begin with one leg under and one on top of the blankets. And he knows that when Armie holds him close he feels cared for, like not only his body, but his soul is being held in a warm embrace.

Not filming today has left him lazy, but awake, content after the freedom of a day where the only prescription was to do nothing. Timothée captures Armie’s thigh between both of his own as they half-heartedly wrestle for a moment before a final firm tug from Armie has him sprawling across a warm chest. His sharp chin presses softly into the dip of Armie’s collarbone, cold nose resting against his neck. Armie chuckles and the heavy arm across Timothée’s back moves to caress firmly over his flank before palming his ass and hitching him even closer.

Armie’s breathing seems to even out, chest rising and falling slowly against Timothée’s own. “Do you think we would have met, if not for this?” Timothée speaks quietly, lips seeking skin to gentle the rupture of sound as Armie hums beneath him, dredged from the first vestiges of sleep.

Armie returns the favour, pressing a kiss into his hair. “I’m sure we would have crossed paths at some industry party, your burgeoning star beginning to shine and mine fading away.”

Timothée can hear the smile in his voice, but he still niggles him in the ribs, fingers digging in until Armie wraps a large hand around his wrist, laughing as he twines their fingers together. “What did I tell you about self-deprecation?” Timothée says.

“That you’re the king of it and I should bow down to your self-imposed title,” Armie supplies.

Timothée groans low in his throat, extricating his hand so he can prop himself up on his elbows. Armie’s eyes are deep and blue, full of an honest earnestness that Timothée strives to match. “You’re amazing. You know that, right?”

“I’ll probably never do a big budget movie again,” he’s avoiding Timothée’s gaze.

“Do you want to?”

“Big house; kid; wife, it’s not cheap.”

It’s Timothée’s turn to look away. During the daytime talking about Harper, about Elizabeth, falls in with the separation they have on set, where intimacy is shared between Elio and Oliver and any closeness between Armie and Timothée can be assigned to friendship and character spill over. In the darkness, Timothée can close out the rest of the world, can steal every moment with Armie and hoard them close to his heart so maybe when this is all over it won’t hurt so much.

“What if we weren’t actors?” Timothée tries to recapture the playful tone from earlier. When all else fails return to the fantasy. “What if you saw me on the street?”

Thankfully Armie seems happy to fall with him. “Are you fishing for compliments?” he teases. “I would have been drawn to your obviously superior magnetism.”

“No, I’m being serious.” Timothée huffs out a breath, shuffling back down to rest his cheek on Armie’s shoulder. “What if we met at a coffee shop? Or in a club?”

“You’re too young to get into a club.”

“When in Rome…”

Armie smirks, chin tilting down so he can watch Timothée, hand coming up to comb through his curls. “You would have caught my eye and I would have offered to buy you a drink.”

“What if I’d said no?” Coquettish now, Timothée can’t help but bait him.

“I don’t think you would,” Armie says, dark and dripping with control.

Timothée feels his face flush hot. “So, you buy me a drink, and then what?”

“I ask if you want to dance.” Armie presses a quick kiss to Timothée’s red cheek. “I spotted you on the dancefloor so I already know you like to show off. And you do.” Timothée chuckles. “And I can’t keep up with you, so I get my hands on your hips,” Armie moves the hand not in Timothée’s hair down to cup his hip, fingers gripping the skin possessively, “and I pull you back against me until we’re moving together.”

“Are you hard?”

“Not yet, but I’m getting there.”

“I’d rub against you.” Timothée says, shameless now. He grabs at Armie’s wrist, sliding the hand from his hip further back until Armie is running his fingers over the tacky leavings from earlier. He palms Armie’s cock that is indeed ‘getting there’ and stretches up until he can speak directly into Armie’s ear. “I can’t hear your voice, it’s too noisy, but I can feel your lips against my neck. Your breathing getting faster. You like me putting on a show.”

“Fuck,” Armie groans. Timothée starts to jerk him slowly. Armie licks up his neck, teeth biting softly at his jaw, careful not to leave marks. “The people nearby are watching us. They know exactly what’s going on and they all wish they were in my place.”

Timothée whines as Armie’s fingers start stroking lightly over his entrance. “Would we go to a back room?”

“No. I want more than a quick fuck. I’d take you home with me.”

“Presumptuous,” Timothée says, starting to pant as Armie’s fingers become more insistent.

“This from the boy begging me to take him in the club bathroom.”

“I’m not begging yet.” Armie takes it as the challenge it is, rolling Timothée onto his back before straddling him, limbs braced solidly on all fours as he looms over him, breaking any point of contact. Timothée’s skin is buzzing despite the lack of stimulation.

“I take you to my apartment.” Armie’s voice is low and rough. “It’s a one bedroom, just me and Archie.”

Timothée wants to keen. Them. Alone. He settles for tilting his head backward, baring his neck to Armie who doesn’t disappoint, leaning in immediately to suckle at his pulse, mouth just light enough to ensure any mark will fade by morning. He twines a hand in Armie’s hair, grip tight just to feel Armie moan. “I love dogs,” he breathes.

Armie pulls back, “I know.” His smile pulls at his eyes, fills out his cheeks and makes him appear five years younger. “Archie’s a puller – he’s usually a chick magnet, but I guess he made an exception for you.”

“So now you’ve got me where you want me. What are you gonna do about it?”

Armie slowly lowers himself again, shuffling down Timothée’s body, trailing wet kisses across his narrow chest. “I take you to my bedroom – I’ve got a big bed – “

“A big bed huh?” Timothée interrupts. “Are you over-compensating for something?”

Armie gives him a look that clearly spells out Timothée is being a brat. “Not in the slightest.”

The barest hint of Armie’s stubble catches against the delicate skin of Timothée’s belly. He squirms and Armie uses the distraction to part Timothée’s legs, situating himself between them, one arm wrapping under Timothée’s back, propping him up effortlessly. His shoulders spread Timothée’s thighs wide open. Armie’s right, no over-compensation, everything about him is big. It’s overwhelming.

“I like how your arms feel around me,” the words slip from Timothée’s lips.

“What?” Armie asks, distracted.

Timothée hesitates, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. “You just – you’re strong. Stronger than me anyway. I like that I don’t always have to think when I’m with you. I can trust you – it’s like you’re there to catch me. You wouldn’t let me fall.”

“You don’t need me to protect you.” Armie’s gaze is serious.

“That’s not – I don’t.”

“You’re strong, Timmy. Your strength is your vulnerability. You are so full of love for… everything. I hope you don’t lose that, but I also know what working in this business does to people. Just – please don’t ever pretend with me.”

“I won’t,” Timothée says.

What was this if not pretend? Armie’s face is still between his thighs and he lets his eyes fall closed as Timothée strokes his fingers lightly from temple to jaw before cupping the back of Armie’s neck and pulling him tight to his groin. “What next?” he asks. He wants Armie to keep talking, wants to stay in their world for a little while longer.

Armie’s eyes flutter open for a moment, expression unreadable. Timothée catches his gaze and Armie nods ever so slightly before he leans forward again, burying himself in Timothée’s scent as he mouths against the silky skin at the base of his cock. Armie abruptly pulls away leaving Timothée’s hips twitching up after him.

“Are you clean?” Armie asks. Timothée’s brows furrow. The leftover lube and come in his ass would suggest they had already shared this conversation. Armie must sense his confusion and tacks on, “I mean, we just met. I – God, I didn’t even ask your name.”

He plays along, “It’s Timothée,” and pronounces his name the French way – the correct way.

“Well, Tim-o-tay,” Armie draws out the accent, “I’d very much like to eat you out and then fuck you until you can’t see straight, let alone walk straight – but I don’t want to monopolize the evening with my ideas, so what do you think?”

“Fuck,” Timothée bites out the word, impressed as always with Armie’s ability to blatantly ask for what he wants.

“Oh, so you’re on board with the fucking part. We better get to it then.”

Armie lets some spit pool from his mouth onto two fingers, coating them inelegantly in wetness before rubbing his fingertips across Timothée’s hole, gently teasing at his rim. Timothée throws his head back, presses his thumb into the mark Armie left on his throat, hand tight on his windpipe for a moment as he swallows before bracing both hands against the headboard and pushing down.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Armie! Just put your fucking fingers in me already.”

“Odd that you seem to know _my_ name.” Armie punctuates the statement by finally inserting both fingers at once, scissoring them and lapping between them at Timothée’s rim. If this was real, if they had met at a club and gone home together, Timothée would hope that Armie would be a tad more thorough with the foreplay, perhaps even letting him shower before putting his mouth on Timothée’s ass.

But here in Armie’s rented apartment that has started to feel more like home than his place in Brooklyn; with his clothes draped haphazardly over the sofa arm when he’d been too lazy to put them in a hamper after they had fucked on the rug in front of the television two nights before; their shoes that Armie had lined up neatly next to the door, a left-over habit instilled from childhood and now extended to Timothée; the blackened saucepan in the sink, ruined after Timothée had left milk for hot chocolate on the stove, curdling as Armie held him hostage with kisses – it felt domestic, it felt a lot like something he knew objectively he was in no position to say.

Yet there was nothing in this fantasy scenario they were playing that could come close to here and now. Tangled together under cheap cotton sheets, Armie shielding him with his bulk and warmth from the draft of the open window. Armie tasting his release inside Timothée from barely an hour before, loving that he could just sink back inside, Timothée already soft and open for him and him alone.

He clings to Armie’s back, presses his face into the side of Armie’s neck breathing him in as he thrusts, inhaling sweat and the deep notes of Armie’s woodsy cologne. He mouths words into Armie’s skin he knows he’ll never be able to say aloud. He’s not like Armie – he doesn’t ask for what he wants, he just _does_ and hopes for the best. Or he’ll let it fester under the skin until it rises like a scab just waiting to be flicked off and forgotten. Sometimes it will leave a scar, a reminder of all the things he wanted to say but didn’t, healed over and impossible to reach without needing to dig in to the searing agony of old wounds.

“Armie,” he whispers instead. “Armie, Armie, Armie,” like a mantra as they move together. If he can’t have the fantasy – the true fantasy – at least he can have this.

Armie hitches Timothée’s calf over his hip, driving into him deeper, faster. He connects their mouths, halting Timothée’s breathless murmur as he kisses him, tender in opposition to his thrusts. Timothée jolts as Armie gets a hand around him, jerking him off quickly.

His climax hits abruptly, semen coating Armie’s hand, dripping thick onto his own stomach. He gasps, mouth parting from Armie’s as they just breathe each other in for a moment before Armie comes too with a last thrust and a quiet call of “ _Tim_ ”. No Tim-o-tay, just Tim, just them.

Timothée winces as Armie pulls out, closing his thighs and feeling a glob of semen and lube slide past his rim as his hole clenches shut, still spasming slightly at the heavy use of two rounds of sex. He’s tempted to get up and shower, but Armie reels him in close before it’s much of an option, rolling so that Timothée is out of the wet patch. Armie runs a hand perfunctorily through the remaining mess in the cleft of his ass before wiping it on the sheets behind them.

“Gross,” Timothée says.

Armie chuckles.

They lay quietly for a moment, relaxing in the comedown before Armie speaks quietly. “I’d want you to stay after.”

“Hmm?”

“If I took you home with me.”

Timothée opens his eyes and Armie is smiling at him.

“In the morning I wouldn’t want to let you go,” Armie says, “but I’d try to play it cool so I’d suggest we should go get breakfast, you know, to fill you back up on the calories I so graciously helped you burn off the night before.” He puts his clean hand on Timothée’s cheek, “and because I want to see you smile in the sunlight. That big one, where all your teeth show.”

Timothée’s cheek lifts under Armie’s palm, corner of his mouth quirking upward.

“We’d go to my regular diner, because I want people to see us together, and we’d talk about music and movies and life. I’d want to know all about your sister, and I’d tell you about my dipshit brother, but not about my mother yet – that’s third date stuff.”

He doesn’t know what to do with this, the way Armie talks like he could have their whole future planned out down to what college their children would go to. Timothée would like to believe that this could all be for him. Armie is spontaneous, but there’s a certainty that encapsulates all of his actions, even when a wrong choice is made, Armie will follow through, committed to seeing it to the end, especially if he was the one to set it in motion.

“What next?” Timothée asks, despite himself.

“We’d go to part ways – you’d promise to call – but I’d remind you that you left your jacket at my place and you’d come home with me again.”

He lets himself sink. “I remember leaving my jacket at the club, but I’d be glad you asked.”

“Yeah,” Armie grins smugly at him, “It’s just an excuse to get you back out of your clothes.”

“Does it work?”

“Absolutely.” Armie brushes a stray curl away from Timothée’s forehead, kisses him there, the corner of his eye, the hinge of his jaw. “I’d worship every inch of you. I can’t believe I have someone as beautiful as you in my bed.”

Timothée snorts.

“What, too cheesy for you?” Armie asks.

“Keep going.”

Armie rolls his eyes but starts again. “When I finally let you go back home I wouldn’t be able to wait even an hour before texting you. I’d want you back with me. Under me – maybe on top, we’d see how it goes. And after a few weeks we’d tell all your friends first, and then mine.”

Timothée speaks into the lull. “We’d live in New York. I’d miss the seasons too much if I had to move to California.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’d find a job immediately,” Armie chuckles.

“You could be my kept boy.”

“Trophy husband.”

“Christmases are the best in New York. When it snows at dusk and everything shimmers like tiny stars floating in the air. I’d hold your hand in Central Park so you wouldn’t slip on the ice – at least that’s what I’d tell you so you didn’t think I was _cheesy_ when I said that any moment not holding you was a moment wasted.”

Armie hugs him tightly. “We should go to sleep. I’m sure Luca will want to start filming early tomorrow.”

They’re disgusting, covered in various bodily fluids, sheets sticking and sweat pungent. Timothée can’t bring himself to leave. He grabs a clean blanket, pushed to the floor earlier, and drapes it over them, making sure they’re covered, but leaving one of Armie’s legs bare.


End file.
